Marcellus was combing his hair in the mirror like he did everyday of his life. Less and less hair as he approached his forties.
He knew he would be bald soon. Or worse balding.

He wore a hat to places he could. Work and church services and dining out to nice restaurants were places he dreaded.
His self esteem went further into decline.
He imagined looking into the mirror one morning and miraculously having a thick head of hair again.

But that was fantasy.

“Are you still in there combing your hair?”, his mother yelled from downstairs.

She didn’t understand his frustrations. She couldn’t relate. She had beautiful dark hair. Like he used to have.
His hair still wasn’t to his liking.
Taking his razor he started to shave his head. Hairs fell into the sink and onto the floor.
When Marcellus was finished, his head was cut and bleeding. He looked like an escaped mental patient.

He began to cry.
He smashed his head into the mirror and it shattered, the shards joining the discarded hairs on the floor.